Charity vs. Self-Interest: Finding the Moral Middle Ground (Long)

Lately, I’ve been thinking about Russian Oligarchs and Jesus. Strange companions, I know, but together they form the two ends of a spectrum that’s useful when thinking about how we fight poverty—and how business fits into the broader “impact” movement gaining steam around the world.

At one extreme are the Oligarchs. They are today’s embodiment of humanity’s Darwinian conquerors, taking from the weak to enrich themselves, and then using that wealth to tighten their grip on power. From Mongols to Romans to colonial empires, we’ve seen the same pattern play out: riches and strength pursued for their own sake, regardless of who is hurt along the way.

At the other extreme stands Jesus. (You could substitute Buddha, Mother Teresa, or monks across history here.) Jesus used the power of ideas and mysticism to help the poor resist the mighty—without needing riches of his own. His devotion was total. He gave everything, owned nothing, and stood as a model of radical charity.

So where do we fit between those extremes?

We’re fifty years removed from Milton Friedman’s declaration of “shareholder supremacy” and forty years since Jack Welch showed just how powerful amoral capitalism could become at GE. Today, climate change and inequality are challenging that order, and business leaders are revisiting what capitalism should mean. Out of that questioning came ESG, “impact investing,” and what I’ve started to call neo-moral capitalism.

Adam Smith, in The Theory of Moral Sentiments (1759), reminded us that capitalism only works when exchange is voluntary and moral. Otherwise, the invisible hand becomes a fist.

Here’s where the Oligarch–Jesus spectrum becomes useful.

I’ve said before: I like my toys. Wealth has given me security and the chance to enjoy them. But those toys sometimes bring guilt. For most of human history, the rich have been portrayed as rapacious—Oligarchs. So deeply ingrained is this association that “rich = amoral” lurks in the back of our minds when we meet someone wealthy.

Conversely, Jesus set an impossibly high bar. Only someone without family or worldly appetites could live entirely for the poor. Most of us can curb our appetites some of the time, but not all of the time. And so we sit, uncomfortably, between guilt and impossibility.

But maybe that’s the wrong way to look at it.

Take the arrangement with our Agents. We say: Come work for me. I will pay you fairly compared to those around you, support your family in crisis, and teach you skills so you can one day prosper without me. In exchange, I earn revenue and, if managed well, profits from the work you do.

That is moral voluntary exchange. No exploitation, no coercion. Both sides benefit. I achieve financial security and, yes, my toys. They achieve stability and opportunity. Isn’t that precisely what Adam Smith envisioned—a moral marketplace that lifts everyone involved?

So why the guilt? Habit, mostly. Since childhood, moral people have been taught that wealth usually comes from exploitation, that voluntary exchange isn’t really voluntary. I want to break that habit. Because my wealth hasn’t come from amoral conquest, but from moral exchange.

The bigger challenge is perception. Friedman cloaked amoral capitalism in academic prestige. Muhammad Yunus, for all his accomplishments, did something similar on the other end: he tied moral capitalism too tightly to the image of Jesus. Yes, he won a Nobel Prize. But by suggesting that helping the poor requires saint-like sacrifice, Yunus reinforced the same destructive habit: the belief that the rich cannot also be moral.

The truth is, we need a middle path—between charity and self-interest. Between Oligarchs and Jesus. Wealth earned through moral, voluntary exchange isn’t just compatible with lifting others out of poverty—it’s essential to it.

That’s the future I want to help build: capitalism with a conscience, prosperity without guilt, and impact without sainthood.